Forged by Desire (London Steampunk Book 4)

by Bec McMaster

  It seemed to take minutes, but the butler finally returned, his rheumy eyes full of disapproval. “His lordship shall see you now.”

  Garrett let out the breath he’d been holding. It was more than he’d been expecting. Langford had been in seclusion since Octavia’s death.

  The butler led him to a sitting room on the north side of the house. Heavy drapes were pulled across all of the windows and a fire flickered in the grate. A man sat before it, staring into the flames from his seat in a heavy, studded leather armchair. The flames reflected back off his blue eyes, and he seemed not to notice Garrett’s arrival until Garrett cleared his throat.

  The earl looked up, his vision coming into focus. There was a blankness to his face, as if he’d simply stopped feeling, as if he’d stepped back from the world and events that went on around him. “You’re not Lynch.”

  It seems like the world is intent on reminding me of that. Garrett accepted it as his opening and stepped into the room. “My lord, my name is Garrett Reed. I serve as Acting Guild Master for the Nighthawks following Lynch’s abdication.”

  “He retired?” the earl actually seemed surprised.

  “He is now Duke of Bleight.”

  “Ah.”

  The fire crackled in the grate. Garrett gestured to an armchair beside the earl’s. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  “Do as you will. Though I have no doubt I shall be of little use to whatever avenue you pursue.”

  “I’m interested in your daughter’s disappearance,” Garrett said carefully.

  The earl’s face darkened. “She didn’t disappear. That bastard killed her.”

  “The duke?”

  All of the vitality that had been lacking in the man seemed suddenly to have found a spark: hatred.

  “Moncrieff,” he spat. “He killed my daughter. He took her away from me—” The earl’s voice broke and he shut his mouth abruptly, nostrils flaring as he looked away. “He didn’t even have the decency to accept my challenge afterward.”

  Despite what he knew of the duke, Garrett thought that might have been a single act of mercy in the morass of what had happened.

  “What was Octavia like?” Garrett couldn’t hide the interest in his voice.

  “Octavia was my youngest daughter. She was stubborn, spoiled. I adored her.” The softening of the earl’s features told the truth. “Her older sisters, Daisy and Amelia, were beautiful, kind girls…but Octavia…she was mine.” His voice roughened. “I failed her. She wrote me several times, begging me to break the thrall contract. I thought it simply nerves, or her inability to conform to a traditional role.

  “We never had a son, and I fear I allowed Octavia far too much freedom. I encouraged her to learn the sword, to ride, to take up masculine pursuits, and it wasn’t until too late that I realized how much she would struggle to become what was expected of her. When she begged me to get her out of there…” The earl shook his head. “I wanted her to conform. My daughter is dead, because I ignored her.”

  “What reason did Octavia give for asking you to break the thrall contract?” Perry had been hurt by someone—had it been the duke who gave her the craving? The duke who put that fear in her voice and hurt her? No, no, she’d said it was Sykes—or Hague. Garrett squeezed his fists together, forcing the memory of her haunted expression away.

  Control yourself.

  “Why are you here?” the earl asked bluntly. “This was investigated years ago by Lynch.”

  “I’ve been asked to reinvestigate the case.”

  The earl was no fool. His head lifted, those blue eyes locking on Garrett with a clarity that reminded him of someone. “Who hired you?”

  “The Duke of Moncrieff.”

  Blackness slithered through the earl’s eyes, his nostrils flaring. “Get out.”

  “The duke claims that he is innocent,” Garrett said, finding his feet. “He believes that Octavia wanted to escape her thrall contract and staged her death.”

  The earl staggered upright, vibrating with rage. “That filthy snake lied through his teeth.”

  Garrett stared him in the eye. “I believe him.”

  “Get out! Bentley! Bentley!” The earl started for the door, calling for the butler.

  “Wait!” Garrett went after him.

  “You despicable—”

  “Wait!” He shoved a hand into his pocket, withdrawing the one thing that might still the earl’s wrath. “Do you recognize this?”

  He held the coin up.

  The earl froze, breathing harshly. “Where did you get that?”

  “It belongs to a young woman I know. A Nighthawk. She calls herself Perry, and she’s been with us for almost nine years. I need to know if this belonged to your daughter. I need to know if the woman I know as Perry is Octavia.”

  All of the color drained out of the earl’s face. He simply stared, unable to speak or to move, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps.

  “Do you have a portrait of her?” Garrett asked instead.

  “In the hallway,” the butler replied, peering through the door.

  Garrett shot him a glance, then gestured to the earl. “Do you have some fortified blood? Something for him?”

  The butler nodded and Garrett strode out into the hallway. Portraits lined it, but he’d not noticed them before. He paced past dozens of them, then stopped, his breath catching. There it was.

  Three young girls stared out from the painting, sprawled in a rural scene with an enormous hound at their side. The elder two girls were beautiful, with bright smiles and plump, heart-shaped faces. One wore bright yellow and the other wore pink as she sniffed a handful of meadow flowers, peering mischievously over the top of them.

  It was the third girl who stole his breath. She was young, perhaps only fifteen or so, looking solemn and serious as she petted the wolfhound. Silky blond curls tumbled over her shoulder, and her eyes were as gray as a stormy sky, staring out at the viewer as if she could see straight through them. She wore a green gown, as though to blend in with the grass around them, her head tucked shyly against the hound’s shoulder.

  “Is it this one? Is this Octavia?” Garrett stabbed a finger toward the girl in green, although he knew. Oh God, he knew. How many times had he seen that exact expression over the years?

  The butler followed his gaze toward the portrait. “That is Miss Octavia with her sisters. Directly before she signed her thrall contract with the duke.”

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” the earl whispered, taking unsteady steps toward him. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”

  Garrett gave a short, harsh nod.

  The man shut his eyes, pressing a quivering hand to his mouth. “She’s alive,” he whispered. “But she never came home. She never let me know.”

  “Maybe she couldn’t,” Garrett suggested. The coldness was building in him again, a thunderstorm flickering within. “If she fled from the duke, then maybe she had cause. And maybe that threat, that fear, included the reason she couldn’t come home.”

  “What are you going to do?” The earl’s voice was becoming stronger.

  Garrett eyed him. The man he’d first found would be no help to him, but there was a hint of something in the earl’s voice that promised a growing strength. Maybe he needed this too.

  “I’m going to find her—” And not wring her bloody neck as he wanted to. “Then I’m going to discover why she’s frightened of the duke…”

  “And then?”

  “I’m going to make certain he can’t hurt her anymore.” The words were soft, but deadly menace echoed in them.

  “Why do this for her?” the earl asked, his eyes keen. “You have to know that the duke will move to crush you.”

  There were a thousand things he could have said. A thousand reasons. Instead, he chose the one that burned the strongest within him: “Because I love her.”

  “Enough to die for her?” the earl challenged, clearly trying to test how far Garrett’s loyalty would stretch.

  “No.” Garret
t let out a small, harsh laugh. “I have no intention of dying. Not yet. But enough to destroy the duke. Or anyone who stands in my way.” He stared the earl down. “I will not falter, my lord. I won’t betray her and I won’t turn back at the first hint of danger. Perry is my light in the darkness. I would burn the world to ashes to keep her safe, if it comes to that.”

  The earl stared at him for a long moment. “Then you have my blessing—and any help that I may offer you.”

  “Excellent. First I need to know my enemy. I need everything you know about Moncrieff. His strengths and his weaknesses.”

  “You have it, on one condition.”

  Garrett arched a brow.

  “The duke is mine,” the earl said grimly. “I failed her once. I won’t fail her again.”

  “We might have to flip a coin for that honor.”

  Twenty

  Garrett strode into his study, sliding the coat off his shoulders as he raked a hand through his wet hair. His fingers were shaking. Looking at them, he turned and crossed to the decanter of blud-wein, downing two glasses before he could even begin to sort through the mess in his head.

  “Bloody hell.” He turned and kicked a chair out of the way violently. The encounter with the Earl of Langford had only increased his tension. The Moncrieff was well nigh invincible. Reportedly the best swordsman in a generation, with the power of the Council of Dukes behind him and as rich as bloody Croesus. In comparison, Garrett had no true power—the duke would crush him if he moved openly—and barely any allies of consequence now that Lynch wanted nothing to do with him. He couldn’t challenge the duke to a duel, he couldn’t set the Nighthawks against him, and he couldn’t buy him off.

  The only weakness the man had was arrogance. Garrett was a Nighthawk, so far beneath him that the duke would barely see a challenge. It was the one thing he could exploit, if only he could think how to do it.

  A sharp rap sounded at the door. Byrnes leaned against the door frame, his gaze riding over the bloodied glass on the desk and the forlorn chair on the floor. He said nothing, but it grated on Garrett’s nerves, notching the tension within him even tighter.

  “Have you found her?”

  Byrnes’s left eyebrow inched toward his hairline. “No.”

  “What do you mean?” Garrett froze.

  “No sign of her. No trail, not even a hint of one.” Byrnes held up a knife, the one with the tracking beacon inside it. “Found this near Covent Garden, tossed in an alleyway. No sign of a scuffle. Why? What’s going on? Has she run again?”

  “Nothing is going on,” Garrett murmured, accepting the knife. One he’d designed himself, just for her. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You’ve got four hundred Nighthawks out on the streets and you can’t find her?”

  “My, my, aren’t we in a fine mood?”

  “Now is not a good time.”

  Byrnes stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, blatantly ignoring the warning. “It would help the search if I had all the pieces of the puzzle. Something’s bloody going on. You looked white as a ghost the instant Doyle handed you that book.” His hand slipped into a pocket inside his coat and came up with a small piece of parchment. “Perhaps this has something to do with it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Lynch arrived an hour ago. He’s still here somewhere, but he grew tired of waiting. You know what he’s like. Went to see the lads. He left this for you.”

  “Give it to me,” Garrett demanded, his gaze narrowing on the piece of parchment. What could Lynch want? He’d made it quite clear their friendship was over. Something fisted tight in Garrett’s gut. Longing. Christ, he wanted so badly to be able to ask what the answers were, to talk this through with the one man he’d admired above all others, but that was over now.

  Every action had a consequence. At the time, he’d thought the price was one he was willing to pay, but now he wasn’t so certain.

  “No,” Byrnes replied, circling the room with the piece of parchment still between his fingers. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “That’s not your place.”

  “Then what the hell is my place?” Byrnes snapped. “I kept an eye on Lynch, helped him when he needed it, did what I was supposed to do as one of his lieutenants. I can’t do that with you because you don’t trust me. I might as well be just a damned tracker.”

  “You might have thought of that before you made my bloody life difficult when I accepted this role,” Garrett snapped. “If I don’t trust you, it’s because you earned it. Give me the note.”

  Byrnes held it out to him, his lips firming. Garrett snatched it, recognizing the elegant writing immediately.

  I’m sorry. I know I promised I would help you, but I have decided to resign from the Nighthawks. I can’t come back. Lynch will explain what he can.

  A strange ringing filling his ears. This was good-bye. Again. And she hadn’t stayed to say it to him; she’d sent him a fucking note. His fingers curled into a fist, crumpling the letter in his hand. He could barely see for the sudden fierce wash of blackness that swept through his vision.

  “Why is she leaving?” Byrnes asked, his voice coming from a great distance. “What the devil is going on between you two?”

  Garrett was moving toward the door, but suddenly something shoved him back. Byrnes. His gaze focused again, and he couldn’t hold it back any longer.

  Garrett caught the other man by the lapels, dragging him close and snarling in his face. “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”

  Byrnes’s fingers wrapped around his wrists. “Not when you’re like this.”

  Suddenly the other man was flying through the air, hitting the desk and rolling across the top of it, papers scattering everywhere. The inkwell rolled, black ink dripping like viscous blood from the edge of the desk. Garrett’s gaze focused on it. Blood. He wanted blood. And he knew where to get it.

  The world faded. The next thing he knew, he had Byrnes by the throat, forcing his chin up. The other man kicked out, legs wrapping around Garrett’s hips, twisting, flinging him off balance. Then they were rolling across the timber floor, smashing into a chair and sending pieces of it flying.

  “What the hell—?” Doyle’s voice reverberated through the roaring in Garrett’s head.

  He turned, tracking the man. If he wanted human blood, it was right there in front of him.

  “Get Lynch!” Byrnes hit him hard, his shoulder driving into Garrett’s midriff. They went over the desk, Byrnes snarling down at him as Doyle fled. “I’m doing you a bloody favor!”

  Garrett drew his arm back and punched him. Blood spattered across the wall and Byrnes shook his head, his fists tightening on Garrett’s shirt.

  “Is that the best…you can do?” Byrnes spat blood, laughing down at him.

  He wanted to kill. Wanted to tear someone apart and Byrnes was there. Byrnes, who’d been the thorn in his side for the past month. Byrnes, who’d taunted him for years in the ring because Garrett refused to push himself to the edge, refused to hurt his comrades in what he considered sport. Perry flashed through his mind. Gone. He had to get to her, take her back. Lock her in the fucking cells if he needed to, so that she could never escape him again.

  But first…

  He smashed Byrnes across the face again. And again. Blood painted his knuckles, some of it his, some of it Byrnes’s. It felt so damned good, he kept going, until Byrnes’s hands weakened on his shirt and suddenly Garrett was on top, his fingers digging into the other man’s throat—

  Something hit him with the force of a train, driving him straight into the wall, his arm yanked up behind his shoulder and his face ground against the embossed wallpaper. The ringing in his ears got louder, his entire vision washing with darkness. He was going to kill whoever thought they could stop him from getting to Perry—

  “Breathe.” The voice was shockingly familiar. “Breathe through it, damn you.”

  Lynch.

  Garrett’s body jerked, heat and shame flushing furiously through his face. He b
ucked hard, but Lynch pinned him ruthlessly, forcing his arm higher until the screaming pain in his shoulder cut through even the black haze that blinded him.

  “You’re not alone,” Lynch whispered in his ear. “I’m here. And I know how you feel. You need to breathe through it. Nice and slow. Let it in. And out again.”

  A hiss of breath escaped Garrett. He shoved against the wall but Lynch held him firm. No escape. Not from this, or from the black haze in his mind.

  “That time that the humanists drugged me into a blood frenzy and you had to chain me to the bed, I remember you sat beside me the whole time,” the voice said in his ear. “You wouldn’t let Doyle or Byrnes kill me, because you knew that I could come back, that you could hold me there until I did.” Lynch’s grip shifted on Garrett’s arm. “I’ve got you, lad. I’ve got you now. I won’t let you lose control.” He squeezed again. “She needs you to hold on. Perry needs you.”

  Not alone. Garrett collapsed against the wall, Lynch’s body pressed against his. He sucked in a huge breath, feeling it expand against the tightness there until he felt like he could breathe again. Heat flushed behind his eyes, bringing with it a surge of shame.

  “Don’t fight it. Just breathe.”

  He could hear Byrnes getting slowly to his feet, could smell the blood in the air. His body tightened and Lynch felt it.

  “Get out of here,” Lynch ordered, “and clean yourself up. I want you back here in ten minutes.”

  Garrett tracked Byrnes through the room by sound, relaxing only when he was gone. He slumped again and opened his eyes, blinking through the shades of gray.

  Lynch’s harsh face came into view, examining him for a moment. Then the pressure was gone and Garrett collapsed to his knees, pressing his forehead against the wall. There was blood on his hands, his knuckles split. He had to get rid of it. Had to stop breathing in the scent of it. Garrett wiped his hands on the carpets, again and again, until his hands were crusted with dried blood. They shook.